NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2)

by Gretta Mulrooney

  Ali opened his laptop. ‘We went along the coast from Hastings to Bognor Regis. A lot of centres we contacted were a bit vague about timings. Stafford was seen in Worthing and Hove last year, here in town and in Eastbourne earlier this year but then we drew a blank after June.’

  Siv pondered the geography of this case, and pictured the locations of people they’d interviewed. ‘Does Seaford feature in Stafford’s ramblings?’

  Ali checked. ‘Yes. Last sighting we found there was in 2017.’

  ‘So he was probably there on other occasions. Patrick, contact DS Shaw at St Leonard’s. Make sure we get Stafford’s DNA cross-referenced with results from Steiner’s asap. I want to find out if he was ever there. Ali, get hold of Clive Hemmings and ask again if he or his family knew Stafford. That would be an interesting connection. I’m sure he lied about something when we saw him.’

  As they were leaving, she called Ali back. She forced a smile. It wouldn’t fool him. ‘Did anything much happen at the party after I left last night?’

  He gave her a measuring glance, then leaned against the back of a chair. ‘Mortimer and Crista vanished for a while. Tommy Castles made sure that word got round that she’s your mum, and that seeing her with Mortimer gave you a nasty shock. She and Mortimer reappeared about twenty minutes after you left. No major drama. Except, I suppose, for you. You didn’t realise your mum and Mortimer were an item?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’m over the moon. No doubt everyone at the station has heard about it by now.’

  ‘Probably. Does it matter? I mean, I can see it could make things awkward with Mortimer, but in this kind of place, there are lots of family links. People are used to it.’

  Ali had a point but he didn’t mind living a public life with little concept of privacy. When he spoke of his background, she got the impression of a busy, packed household where the door was always open and neighbours dropped by constantly. ‘We’ll see. Depends on the family involved.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned that your mum lives here.’

  ‘That’s right. You’ll find that odd, but I have my reasons.’

  ‘Sure. Your business, guv. I erm . . . I gather you don’t get on with her.’

  ‘You gather correctly. How old is Mortimer?’

  ‘Just turned fifty.’

  Eighteen years between them. Maybe Mutsi wouldn’t be able to maintain the pace and they’d fizzle out. But she had years of insight into her mother’s strategies. When Mutsi had homed in on Mortimer, she’d have weighed up his status and assets, both financial and personal, and the prospect of a secure future. She’d be prepared to put in the hard graft.

  Ali said, ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘No. Yes — get me some evidence.’

  She rose and stood at the window after he’d gone. The Japanese maples across the road now boasted a colour palette of fiery hues, but the leaves were thinning and the pavement below was a carpet of red and burnt orange. She watched a road sweeper clearing the fallen leaves from the gutters, rendering them into a brown sludge that symbolised the state of her brain at present. Doubt gripped her. Had she made a mistake, leaving London with its blissful anonymity? After Ed’s death, Berminster had appealed because it was familiar. Her memories of living here with her father were comforting. The downside was that it was a place where the grapevine worked swiftly and efficiently.

  She forced her mind back to the job. Without forensics or other evidence, getting any kind of grip on this investigation was like trying to grasp smoke in her hand. Her door vibrated as Ali barged through it, waving the banana he was eating.

  ‘Guv, Pearce Aston and Adam Dimas are both in hospital. Aston has a superficial knife wound and Adam has mild concussion and bruising. Uniform are dealing with them. According to Aston, Adam turned up last night at Time After Time, the antiques place, with a knife. Aston’s been staying there because Lily’s back at home and he’s had to move out. Adam managed to stab him in the shoulder before Aston overpowered him and knocked him out.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, he’s a fit guy and Adam wouldn’t be quick on his feet.’

  ‘Aston managed to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Lucky for both of them. Is Theo Dimas with Adam?’

  ‘Aye. He’s seen Aston as well.’

  Siv rested against the window ledge. ‘What a total mess this is. I bet Lily’s been talking to Adam, and making sure he has all the details about their mum. She’s a piece of work. I’m sorry for Adam. He’s young and he’s had a lot to deal with.’

  ‘Yeah, his bread falls butter side down. Talking of food, d’you want a banana? I bet you could do with a bite to eat.’

  ‘Hmm? No, that’s okay.’

  She turned again to gaze at the trees as he left. The road sweeper was moving on and the pavement was bare and stark. More leaves would fall soon, laying a new carpet. Her mind dwelled on Adam’s troubles and she wondered how Theo Dimas would react to this latest blow. She ran through recent interviews permeated by loss, shock and anger and reviewed the reactions she’d witnessed, and the latest connections in this tangle of people. Young men and their grieving fathers, young men lacking fathers, young men with overprotective fathers. She recalled Grant Haddon sitting in his father’s office and speaking of his childhood illness.

  She stood motionless, catching her breath and leaned her forehead on the windowpane as she turned over the germ of a possibility. Could it be true? Was it even relevant? She picked up her phone, rang Grant Haddon and had a brief conversation. When she’d finished, she found Clive Hemmings’s previous address, snatched up her bag and hurried from the office.

  ‘Are you heading to Seaford to see Hemmings?’

  Ali was putting his jacket on. ‘Aye, he’s at home today.’

  ‘Good. I’m hitching a ride and I’ll explain why in the car. I’m ravenous, I’ll have a banana now.’

  Chapter 24

  On the way to Seaford, she told Ali about her conversation with Grant. ‘I remembered that he said he’d had almost a year’s illness with leukaemia, and that it had delayed his schooling. It struck me that he might have had private tutoring. When I rang him, he confirmed that he had a tutor for six months in 2012, and his name was Clive Hemmings. Hemmings used to go to their home in Bywater, but Lewis Haddon once gave him a lift home to Seaford when his car broke down.’

  ‘Okay, that’s interesting, but where does it take us?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but let’s consider the cross-threads here. Hemmings believes that Lyn Dimas’s actions caused his mum to kill herself, and impacted so much on his sister’s mental health that she committed suicide. He has no alibi. Grant was at school with Adam, and we now discover that he was tutored by Hemmings, who lives in Seaford. Tim Stafford was in Seaford, and he was treated by Lyn Dimas. Stafford might well have hung out at Steiner’s and could have seen Lyn there.’

  ‘Sure, I can see that you’re playing with degrees of separation, but that doesn’t connect Hemmings with Lyn, other than through his mother. He had a strong motive to kill Lyn, but that’s all we have.’

  ‘Bear with me. If we find that Hemmings lied to us and did know Stafford, and if we can link Stafford to Steiner’s forensically, we can bring Hemmings in for questioning. Stafford could have told him about seeing Lyn at Steiner’s. That could have given Hemmings the idea of killing her there. That’s a number of “ifs”, but I’m sure that he’s concealing something.’

  Ali tapped the steering wheel and pursed his lips. ‘It’s a long shot but I don’t dislike it. What we really need is for Stafford to wake up and start talking.’

  ‘Even if he regains consciousness, he might have brain damage. Go easy on Hemmings when you see him, I don’t want him alarmed. If he still denies meeting Stafford, don’t press it. I’m going to knock along Hood Lane, where the Hemmings family used to live, see if anyone recalls seeing Tim Stafford at their house.’

  It was a bright, chilly but calm day after the winds of the night before. Hood Lane
was a street of terraced houses with neat front gardens, many of which had been paved or gravelled. It had a settled air, and Siv was pleased to see a number of handrails by front doors, indicating older residents who had been around for a while and might even take an interest in their neighbours. Several houses had smoke curling from their chimneys and there was a sweet smell of cherry in the air at number nineteen, but the young woman who opened the door had only lived there for a year. She mentioned that Esther Walsh at fifteen had lived there ‘like, for ever — in fact, she might have been born in that house.’

  Siv rang the bell at fifteen but there was no reply. She read the black-and-red notice on the door:

  POLICE & TRADING STANDARDS NOTICE

  NO JUNK MAIL

  NO MENUS

  NO FLYERS

  NO CHARITY COLLECTIONS

  NO SALESPEOPLE

  ADDRESSED MAIL ONLY

  THANK YOU

  She worked her way along either side of twenty-one. There were few people in. None of them recognised the photo of Tim Stafford. She had the beginnings of a headache, the kind that starts behind the eyes and works its way to the temples. She was about to cross the road when a taxi drew up outside number fifteen, and a tiny old woman wearing a blue denim jacket, navy jeans and rainbow-striped plimsolls hopped out, hefting two full shopping bags. She waved to the driver, calling to him to behave himself and adding, ‘If you can’t be good, be careful!’

  Siv approached, holding out her ID and asking if she could have a word.

  ‘What about? If it’s about my grandson and his parking, that’s nothing to do with me.’ She stared up at Siv with impudent green eyes.

  ‘It isn’t. I want to ask you about the Hemmings family who used to live at number twenty-one.’

  ‘Well, you can, but you’ll have to come in because my feet are killing me. You’re young and supple, take a bag while I get my key.’

  Siv followed her down a narrow, dark hall. The shopping bag was as heavy as if it contained bricks. She blinked when Esther opened the door into an extended kitchen. It was flooded with light from the skylights in the roof. Esther balanced with one hand on a counter while she shucked off her plimsolls and flexed each foot carefully. Her feet were dainty and bare, her toenails scarlet.

  ‘What they don’t tell you about getting older is that it hurts,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m eighty-six!’

  Her saucy air made her seem younger. She was upright, her silvery backcombed hair standing up like a dandelion clock around her pert face. She peered in a round wall mirror that was circled with gold lettering, You’re Looking At The Best Gran In The World.

  ‘Just had my hair done. Like it?’

  ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Hmm, not bad. She wanted to do a rinse but I said no. I don’t like too much messing about. Now, I just need to put the perishables in the fridge. You could stick the kettle on if you want to make yourself useful. I’m as parched as a woman lost in the desert.’

  Siv did as she was bid, following orders to find the teapot and caddy. The tea was leaf, and she had to confirm that she understood to warm the brown earthenware pot.

  ‘And it’s three spoons, one each and one for the pot, and let it brew for at least two minutes before you pour,’ Esther said bossily, making a racket as she stacked the freezer. ‘See all this packaging! It makes you sick. If I were younger, I’d be marching with that Greta Thunberg and speaking truth to power. Mind you, a square meal wouldn’t harm her. The strainer’s in that drawer on your right, and there’s biscuits in the tin just above your head. Nothing fancy, just digestives. Unless you’re one of those faddy eaters, gluten free or whatever, in which case, you’ll have to go without.’

  ‘Digestives are fine,’ Siv said, taking two mugs from hooks. They were both embellished with slogans, You know you’re getting old when happy hour is a nap and Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill.

  ‘And the milk goes in the blue-striped jug,’ Esther said. She handed Siv a bottle of semi-skimmed.

  Siv was amused and obeyed. Esther might look as if a breeze would blow her away, but her impishness spoke of a robust core.

  At last, they were seated at the table with tea and biscuits. Esther poured, setting the silver strainer on top of each mug. Only her hands, gnarled, crêpey and with a slight tremble, gave her age away.

  ‘I prefer my tea this way. I suppose you just have tea bags like most people. I was reading that they’re full of plastic. What about that, isn’t it terrible what they put in our food?’

  ‘It’s a minefield,’ Siv agreed. She stirred her tea. It smelled fresh and fragrant. Her head was pounding now, and she was starting to worry that it might take hours to navigate Esther’s stream of consciousness and establish if she had any useful information. ‘Would you have some pain killers?’

  Esther laughed. ‘I’m old, of course I have!’ She went to a drawer and brought back a pack of paracetamol. ‘You’re a funny colour. Period pains? Now, that’s one of the few benefits of old age, I don’t have to put up with that anymore.’

  ‘Just a headache.’ Siv swallowed two capsules with the hot tea and took a biscuit. The sunlight was streaming through the skylight above, striking her eyes and she raised a hand to shield them.

  Esther picked up a remote control and lowered the electronic window blind. ‘That better?’

  ‘Much, thanks.’

  ‘I like the skylights, but they can make the place too warm. I have the blinds down all day in summer. Glad I’ve got this gizmo, I wouldn’t want to be climbing on chairs. I was born in the room over your head, four o’clock in the morning and deep snow outside.’

  Siv smiled and tilted her mug in respect. ‘That’s amazing. You’ve always lived here?’

  ‘Baby to geriatric, that’s me. Mind you, my parents wouldn’t recognise the house now!’ She paused to munch a biscuit and Siv made the most of it.

  ‘Were you friendly with the Hemmings family? I’m really hoping that you can help me.’

  Esther sat up straight. ‘I lent Tilly a hand the day she moved in with the children, and I saw them taking her body out on a stretcher. That unfortunate woman. She wasn’t one of life’s copers. Oh, she tried, but she couldn’t ride the storms. Posy took after her. Too soft, took things to heart too much. When you’re like that, you get overwhelmed. What do you want to find out?’

  ‘Tilly and Posy both committed suicide, and then Clive sold up and bought his own place. I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘He’s a funny lad, always was. Sort of in a world of his own. I didn’t recognise him when I saw him in town a while back. He said hello and I had to stare. He’d lost all the weight and done something to his face and dyed his hair. If he took pills, tell him I wouldn’t mind some!’

  ‘Did a man called Tim Stafford ever come to their house? This is him.’ Siv took Stafford’s photo from her bag and placed it in front of Esther. ‘He took to living on the streets after that photo was taken, so he might have been worse for wear.’

  Esther turned the photo from side to side and tapped it with a nail. ‘I never caught his name, but Posy had met him. She’d made him something to eat one night when I called in. It was the summer before she died. Posy had found him on the streets and was sorry for him. She had a social conscience and she’d get very worked up about homelessness, saying it was dreadful that a wealthy country like ours had people sleeping rough. This chap was a miserable sight, all right, all damp and dirty. Talk about smelling ripe! You had to pity him, but I told her off about it afterwards. I said it was all very well being charitable, but no woman should invite a man into the house like that. She said she could see that he was harmless from his honest eyes. Some rubbish like that.’ She tutted and shook her head. ‘These girls won’t be told.’

  ‘Was Tim Stafford there more than once? Did Clive meet him?’

  ‘Posy told me that she wouldn’t tell Clive, because he was always keen on keeping the house spick and span and she was a messy sort.
He was a bit obsessed that way. Worried about germs and always using hand gel, that type. He’d nag Posy about the cleaning. This homeless man was like germ central, so Posy would have been mopping up after he’d gone. She was the kind of woman who always wants to please people and keep them happy. “Please yourself first, because no one else will”, that’s what I say. Then she killed herself. She didn’t have much of a life, putting up with Tilly’s depression and then trying to make sure Clive was okay.’

  Siv was disappointed. She’d been hoping that there would be a proven link between Hemmings and Stafford, a sighting of them together. She found a photo of Lyn Dimas on her phone and showed it to Esther. ‘Did you ever see this woman around here, or visiting the Hemmings?’

  Esther shook her head. ‘Never seen her.’

  A text popped up from Ali as she took the phone back. On my way over, Hemmings still says he never met Stafford. I’ll be outside. She was about to thank Esther and take her leave, when the old woman poured them both more tea and stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘I didn’t see that coming, when Posy killed herself. I mean, I realised she’d been down about her mum, but she’d met a man she liked and things were on the up for her. You just can’t tell with people, can you?’

  ‘Who had she met?’

  ‘Well, that I can’t say. I saw her one morning about a month before she died, and she said she was seeing someone. It was early days, but she liked him.’

  ‘No name?’

  Esther shook her head.

  ‘Did Posy indicate if he was local?’

  ‘She didn’t say. She told me that he was a good listener, very sympathetic, and she’d been able to talk about her mum and all the bad things that had happened.’

  ‘Was Clive aware of this new man?’ Siv remembered him saying that Posy didn’t have a partner.

  ‘No way, although she did say that she’d met this chap because of Clive. Posy was so careful around that brother of hers, very mother hen. She said she wanted to wait until she was sure the relationship was going anywhere before she told him. Hang on . . . I remember that Posy said the chap she was seeing lived on a steep hill in a village because when it was icy he had to be ever so careful on the roads.’